The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  ‘Ah, realization at last. I thought I might doze off, waiting for that revelation.’ A low, foreign voice was coming from deep within the looking glass, a voice so bored, it was actually yawning. ‘You have a mind that moves like treacle . . . perhaps we could progress now . . . might I suggest the walking stick?’

  Of all the things Katie had expected, a sarcastic talking mirror was not one of them. But having got this far, there was no turning back. Taking the mirror’s advice, Katie lifted the walking stick high and the whole room galvanized. The symbols carved into the stick’s base and head flew through the air, darting into the bowels of the mirror. Image after image formed and then dissolved before her. Things she had never seen, or would never hope to see.

  There was the sick and frightened girl with the long red hair, the one in Katie’s bed. But this time she was in a different room, with a spirit lamp and a candle burning low – the end of a long night-vigil. The girl sat up in bed, calling. Katie could hear her now. ‘Can you help?’ she cried in a pretty Irish lilt, struggling for breath. Katie leaned forward; but before she could answer the girl was gone, the scene had vanished.

  In its place was the bustle and action of an army on the move. There were cannons, soldiers, horses, lances and swords. Coming directly towards her was a mounted battalion, horses at a trot, lances prepared, swords at the ready. This was war.

  The rumbling of the horses’ hooves was echoed by a crash from above. In the mirror, the sky grew dark. Clouds piled thick and black; they swirled and distorted, forming inky black figures in the sky. Lightning split the skies, like swords wielded by giants. It seemed the heavens had an army of their own; two wars waging at once.

  Below, the army of men tensed and then surged forward. ‘Charge!’ the battalion cried as one, picking up speed. ‘CHARGE!’ The horses’ eyes rolled, the men stood upright in their stirrups, arms raised, lances glinting; and in a mad forward dash, headed straight for Katie.

  She threw her arms up, ducking, and both battles died away. In their place was a pretty girl with long black curls and big eyes; behind her was a flaxen-haired boy in his teens, dressed in velvet and lace. The girl sang a song in French, sad but soothing. When Katie tried to look directly at the boy, she winced. It hurt even to look at him.

  Hundreds of scenes passed through the looking glass. When a serious-faced girl appeared, Katie felt she had found a friend, and reached out to take her hand, only to have this vision replaced by a terrifying, strange and snakelike man. Katie recoiled and involuntarily held the walking stick high. At this the man retreated deep within and the mirror thundered and flashed again. Katie was dizzy, sweating and terrified; but she could not tear her gaze away from the looking glass.

  Far in its depths a figure began to form in the swirling clouds, at first a pin-point of dark against the lightning, but growing larger with every passing moment. It was a man, tall and thin, with deathly pale skin. His hooded eyes, beneath a tall silk top hat, gleamed green through the gloom. He was wearing a black cloak, a close-fitting black frock coat and a high white cravat. And he was carrying a walking stick – exactly like the one in Katie’s left hand. Tap, tap, tap, she remembered. He’d been on the window ledge, outside her apartment. And now he was within.

  This vision, this shade, was different from the others. This one could actually see her. The white-skinned man in the high black top hat – he was looking straight at Katie. He spoke, and his voice was the low foreign voice she had first heard when she faced the mirror, but it wasn’t bored anymore. ‘SEEK,’ he said, ‘SEEK’. Katie’s heart was pounding and an acid bile was rising in her throat.

  ‘I’m going to pass out,’ she panicked, ‘and all this will have been for nothing.’ Along with the man, she could see herself, faintly reflected in the mirror – rather grey, and gulping repeatedly.

  The man had reached the front of the glass. Fixing Katie with his glittering green eyes, so close that she could see their large black pupils, he raised his walking stick. She raised her own with a fierce gesture, but this did not vanquish him. Instead he circled the ebony and silver stick above his head. The strange carved symbols Katie had tried so hard to decipher swirled around it, as if summoned. They reformed and then divided into the words of a thousand languages. With a final, sweeping gesture, he broke through the mirror with his walking stick, the surface rippling into expanding rings.

  There were no flying shards of broken glass, just thousands upon millions of words spilling through the opening, encircling Katie. They swirled around her and seemed to fill her. Despite the words she was speechless. For a moment, she could understand everything ever said in this world, but could say nothing. The knowledge inside her was acutely painful. There was no room for her heart, or her lungs. Had the blood stopped moving in her veins? She couldn’t breathe. ‘Too much,’ she finally found the words. And then there was nothing.

  Chapter Four

  The Reunion

  Quiet. Everything around her was quiet and still. She had thought she was dying; yet now she had never felt so comfortable.

  ‘You fainted,’ said the low, foreign voice. ‘It was amateur dramatics night on 89th Street.’ Katie continued to lie on her back with her eyes closed. She needed to think, to figure things out. But then something was prodding her in the side. She remembered that prod, right in the soft spot under the ribcage. Trying not to move a muscle, she opened one eye, ever so slightly, and took a sidelong peek to her left. There was the walking stick – not hers – but his, all carved ebony and gleaming engraved silver, poking her in the side.

  Two well-shod feet shifted impatiently on the stone floor. A long, thin white hand, smelling slightly of musk, extended to pull her up. She wasn’t on her bathroom floor. Katie knew, with absolute conviction, that this was not a dream; and the time for uncertainty was gone. Though it might be frightening, she must face whatever was coming. Taking the offered hand, she stood, and opening her eyes wide, she looked. She understood.

  It was Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘I’ve been plagued and pestered by several different worlds to bring you back,’ he said. ‘Why they all want you is beyond me.’ He looked her up and down, taking in Katie’s yellow flannel pyjamas, patterned with orange and green frogs. ‘You look a fright,’ he added. ‘You’ve never quite been up to our standards, but this time you’ve outdone yourself. James O’Reilly will be appalled. And really, are you something Princess Alice should see? But she begged and begged, and against my better judgement . . .’

  With these two names, happiness replaced Katie’s fear. ‘Alice! James! Are they here? I’ve got to see them!’

  ‘Got to? You have become presumptuous with time. What you have got to do is calm down and be patient.’ Bernardo DuQuelle continued to view Katie’s pyjamas with distaste. ‘James O’Reilly is attending a medical appointment with his father. Princess Alice is attending a concert with the Queen and Prince Albert.’

  Of course, Alice was a princess, and her mother was Queen Victoria. Katie had made this journey before. She’d been here; she knew this man. With every passing moment she remembered more; and not just who was here, but why she’d come. The Crystal Palace flashed before her eyes, with its slender iron frame and thousands of panes of glass. There was the Queen in her carriage, Prince Albert, a mass of cheering people. They’d been inside the glass structure, and the Chinaman was moving forward to assassinate the Queen. The Black Tide is rising . . .

  ‘Victoria, she’s alive! And Albert, he’s OK too?’

  ‘Queen Victoria,’ Bernardo DuQuelle said. ‘Prince Albert. There seem to be no manners in your own time. Yes, the Queen is alive and well and so is Prince Albert. They are entertaining a delegation from France. Trying to sort out the trouble in the East, the Crimea, or so they say. They’re all in a frenzy against the Russians, and really can’t wait for the war to begin. They are defending the Turks – the Turks! As if any of them have ever given the Turks a single thought. Battle strategy all day and music through the night. You would thin
k they’d never fought Napoleon, never lived through the fear and waste of it all. But the past fifty years have turned the soldiers’ gore to glory. Wellington would put them straight, but he, alas, is gone. This is a difficult moment. I need to keep an eye on things. Now, if you will excuse me.’

  ‘You’ve conjured me up,’ Katie protested. ‘You can’t just leave me here.’ She looked around, past DuQuelle, for the first time. She was standing on a cold stone floor, in a room with a low ceiling and drab walls. In the corner, amongst the old buckets and mops, leaned a full-length mirror, its glass mottled with age spots. DuQuelle walked over to the mirror, and flicked a bit of old gilt from the frame.

  ‘I didn’t conjure you up, to use your own inelegant turn of phrase. I am not a third-rate magician. I assume you remember who I am?’ His green eyes caught her own.

  Katie found it hard to turn away from his gaze. She gulped a bit, and nodded. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘I have a good memory.’

  ‘Good memory,’ he exclaimed, ‘you have a memory like a sieve! I thought when I sent you back you would be able to keep the basic events in your head. I even left my card and my cane; but no, the time seepage was complete.’

  ‘Well, it’s not complete anymore,’ Katie replied. ‘I do remember.’ New York seemed a thousand miles and a thousand years away. ‘Why am I back?’ she asked.

  DuQuelle scooped up Katie’s things: the book, the card, the walking stick, and opened the door of the broom cupboard. Looking down the narrow corridor, he escorted her quickly up the stairs and down a hall, into the school room. The Japanese screen and chaise longue were still there. Katie had no choice but to follow. But the more she remembered about DuQuelle, the less comfortable she was with him. DuQuelle had never been her ally. He wasn’t even human. ‘Please tell me,’ she said again. ‘Why am I here?’

  Rolling his eyes upwards, DuQuelle addressed the ceiling. ‘Do we really have to start all over again?’ he muttered. ‘The chosen . . . I wonder. How sad that they should pin their hopes on this girl . . . Though I still do hope there are some things she will never know . . . The very idea that she is the survivor . . . or the warrior . . .’ He caught himself talking aloud, shook his head, and turned again to Katie. ‘You might just run your fingers through your hair. It’s standing on end – the travel, the Tempus Fugit, it will do that. Try to make half an attempt to tidy yourself. Such a sight!’ Clicking his tongue, he disappeared, leaving Katie alone in the room. She was not sorry to see him go.

  Whatever Alice and James were doing, it was taking hours. Katie had ample time to think, to wonder and remember. She had been here before, in Buckingham Palace, at the height of Queen Victoria’s reign. She’d made a great friend of the Queen’s young daughter, Princess Alice. And then there was James O’Reilly, the son of the Royal Household physician. She blushed slightly, thinking about James – stubborn, intelligent and none too keen on girls. Had she spent the entire time fighting with James? No – she could remember their spats, but also their friendship.

  It was still a jumble in Katie’s mind, but the events kept leaping out at her. New people, new places, and above all, danger. ‘The Black Tide,’ she muttered to herself. They said: ‘The Queen must die, and with her will die the inequality of mankind.’ But the Queen was still alive. And the Black Tide – were they still plotting against the Crown? Katie had no idea which year it was. How much time had passed? DuQuelle was of no help. He didn’t age. For all she knew, Alice could be a grown-up now and James married with children. She looked at her yellow flannel pyjamas and became horribly embarrassed. She’d been longing to see her friends, but now . . . Taking DuQuelle’s advice, she brushed her hands through her thick frizzy hair.

  A rustle of skirts caught her attention, the quick clip of heels and a heavier tread behind. They were coming. Oh, why hadn’t she put on one of those nice nightgowns, now lying in the bottom drawer of her bureau in New York? The door swung open and Alice was there. The moment Katie saw her friend she didn’t care about her pyjamas or her hair anymore. Alice was just the same, a little older, but the same sweet, grave, thoughtful Alice.

  ‘Katie!’ she cried, taking her by the shoulders and then giving her a hug. ‘My Katie! I knew you would come!’

  James was standing behind the Princess, staring at Katie. When she looked at him, he pretended to study the floor, carefully. ‘DuQuelle had warned me,’ he said. ‘But I hadn’t realized you’d look like this. It’s worse than the last time. What are you wearing?’

  ‘They’re my pyjamas. I wear them at night, in bed. I don’t know why you’re complaining, James. At least you can’t see my knees this time.’

  James flushed at the thought of Katie’s knees and began to protest, but Alice, always the peacemaker, interrupted. ‘Pyjamas, I believe they wear them in the Asian colonies, in India, I think. And they are very practical and modest. And Katie, yellow really is a lovely colour with your complexion.’

  ‘And the frogs,’ James added. ‘So lovely, the frogs.’

  Katie kicked James in the shin, just hard enough so he’d know she meant business, and they smiled at each other.

  ‘I feel a lot better now that you’re here,’ Katie said. ‘DuQuelle, he gives me the creeps.’

  ‘He cannot be trusted,’ James added.

  Alice smoothed Katie’s wild hair back from her face. ‘It’s not a question of “creeps” or “trust”; it’s a question of need. We needed you, Katie, and Bernardo DuQuelle obliged. We would not have been able to call you back without him.’

  ‘What was it like,’ James asked, ‘travelling through time? Were you aware of what was happening?’

  Katie laughed at James. ‘You didn’t believe me at all last time, you kept saying I was a big phoney, some lunatic babbling on about the future – and now you want all the details. I don’t think you deserve to know.’

  It looked like the beginning of a typical Katie versus James squabble, but Alice stepped in. ‘I do hope we will have much time to discuss all this, but there is a reason you are here, Katie, and we must use our time effectively.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Katie said, seeing James’s face fall as Alice spoke. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I will. Now what’s up?’

  Alice glanced at James, who looked fixedly at the back of the Japanese screen. It was too hard for him to say.

  ‘Do you know that James has a sister?’ she asked Katie.

  ‘My memory is still coming back,’ Katie said. ‘I remember a name – Grace – but I don’t remember meeting her.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t,’ James said brusquely. ‘Grace was in Italy during your last flying visit.’

  Katie ignored James’s sarcasm. She could tell that something was wrong. When James was worried, or unhappy, he resorted to rudeness.

  ‘Grace has returned,’ Alice continued, ‘and Katie, she is very ill indeed. She has a terrible, persistent cough and she’s become so pale and thin. Any exercise seems to exhaust her, and now she’s taken to her bed. Dr O’Reilly is treating her, but it would be so helpful if someone else . . .’ Alice’s voice trailed off.

  ‘You know I’m not a doctor,’ Katie said. ‘I’m not a nurse; I’m not even studying medicine. I can only just cope with basic science and biology.’

  ‘But you have interest in those topics,’ Alice persisted in her gentle way. ‘While you might dismiss your knowledge of medicine, you have a hundred years of progress that isn’t at our command. James has spoken so warmly, and with such admiration of what you do know.’ James reverted to staring at the Japanese screen, but he did nod his head.

  ‘Couldn’t DuQuelle help?’ Katie asked.

  ‘DuQuelle,’ James snorted.

  ‘We did ask,’ Alice replied. ‘He was sympathetic, but he explained that he will only intervene in our world to keep history on course. In his opinion Grace is not a historical matter.’

  Katie looked at James, who with great concentration was peeling a bit of lacquer off the scr
een. Grace. Katie remembered now. Grace was his only sister. James’s mother had died when he was very young and Grace had tried hard to take her place, supplying much-needed love to James, his older brother Jack and their baby brother Riordan. Grace was not history to James. She was something much more important: the core of his reality.

  ‘What year is it?’ Katie asked James.

  ‘Eighteen fifty-four,’ James replied. ‘What kind of a dim question is that?’

  ‘Then I’ve been exposed to over a hundred and fifty years of stuff you don’t know.’ Katie answered. ‘I can’t guarantee anything. I probably won’t be much help. But James, I really will try.’

  James finally turned from the Japanese screen, his face relaxing just a bit as he looked at Katie. ‘Thank you,’ was all he said. Before Katie could ruin things, and give him a hug, Alice spoke up.

  ‘There is nothing like the present. If Katie is not too fatigued, I think we should go to Grace now. Everyone else in the Palace is downstairs, occupied with the Emperor Napoleon III, so we can move with ease through the corridors.’

  ‘Napoleon III?’ Katie asked. ‘I didn’t even know there was a Napoleon III. Is he different from the Waterloo and Josephine guy? Or the same one but you call him something else?’

  Alice looked rather shocked. ‘He is Mama’s guest, and no, he is not the warring traitor you speak of. That person is long dead.’

  James shook his head. ‘If your medical knowledge is anything like your history, Katie, we don’t have a hope.’

  Alice led Katie down the corridor, past the empty guards’ room, and down a flight of stairs. Opening one of the many doors that lined the hall, they entered a pretty sitting room, bright and fresh, with a fire in the grate. ‘Please wait here,’ Alice said. ‘It’s best I explain, just a tiny bit, to Grace.’ She went through a connecting door, into an adjoining room.